A couple of miles to the west was the only bridge over the Rapid River for several days’ journey south, and the capital lay southwest of the bridge. For this reason, the Terrel homestead was the only homestead east of the Rapid River. Several other homesteads were located to the west of the river. The Blackthorn Forest also reached only as far as the river, and so the locals stayed on its western banks and shores, keeping the deep, cold, and fast running river as a buffer between them and the forest. All except the Terrels, of course, who were often thought of as reckless for living so close to the forest and mountains.
The Terrels didn’t always use the ancient trade road to reach Korwell. It took nearly an extra day to travel that route. Instead, near the hunting blind, there was an interesting place in the river. Large mountain boulders lay across the river to create a sort of ford where the water rushed quicker than normal over the rocks and plunged into a series of white water rapids. At the top, the Terrels had strung a long length of rope between two large boulders along each bank, and when they had to trade in the capital, they would oftentimes use the ford to cross the river and the wild badlands to the west to cut cross country and reach the capital in less time than using the north road. Of course, if they had a need to trade a lot, or as was the case when they traded for their dairy cow, the road was necessary.
Unfortunately, the rope was lost two years prior in a large flood after a particularly bad winter, and Targon was unable to string the rope again without the help of his older brother or grandfather. The memory of his father’s death there deterred him from making the attempt. The Terrels now seldom traveled to the capital or anywhere else for that matter.
The sun had started its slow journey back to the land’s end, and Targon was now smiling, somewhat happy with himself at the brace of three fresh coney kills earlier that day. One for each of us, he thought to himself. Some mornings he would be lucky to be able to snare one, much less three, and he had to move farther and farther from their home in his hunting. It was as if the rabbits of the warren knew of him and gave the homestead a wide berth when it settled a new warren.
Targon quickly returned the conies to his mother, who was more than happy to receive them and start dressing them for dinner. He ate some wild berries that Ann had collected the day before and started to sharpen his knife on an old cut rock they kept on the front porch for just such occasions. He knew he would have to grab his father’s axe and head toward the forest yet again for more firewood. They had nearly exhausted the supply they had built up last fall as winter had been most bitter that year. Life on the frontier did not come easy: he learned a long time ago. Still, watching his mother hum a gay tune from an old nursery rhyme gave him cause to smile before he headed back out toward Blackthorn Forest.
The forest was called Blackthorn for a reason. There was a rather nice-looking but thorny alder bush that liked to grow amongst the pines, cedars, and oaks of the forest. Its stalks and vines had thorny spines for its protection, and after dying off, they turned a hard black as the wood quickly petrified in the extreme weather. Any human, animal, or other creature without armored skin could quickly become punctured, scratched, and just overall bloodied if caught lost in the old, dead alder bushes. Some creatures, such as the conies Targon hunted, found shelter and refuge amongst the thorny spines, but for most creatures, they were best to just be avoided.
Targon found a nice old oak that had died two winters before, and he had purposely left it last year so it would dry out more during the prior summer. He learned that allowing a dead tree to sit through a summer gave the best result for firewood, and so he marked the new trees that had died to leave them for the next year and started to earnestly hack the old oak that had died two years ago. Once he had several piles, he carted the wood back toward home. It took him several trips. Did anyone mention just how difficult life on the wild frontier really was? His bow was starting to chafe across his back, and he made a mindless decision to leave it with the axe against the dead hulk of the oak tree, a decision that may have saved his life, though he did not know it at the time.
With his chores done for the day, Targon took it upon himself to put some final polishing touches on the small wooden carving he had been working on all winter. The carving was done, but he needed to sand it down and polish its rough edges before he could give it as a gift to his mother. The bird carving was of a Clairton, a small, lightly fleeting forest bird that oftentimes sang songs in the early morning and at dusk. It was his mother’s favorite bird, and he fancied his carving quite a piece of artwork to be sure, though others might disagree. He used some wet sand from the bank of Bony Brook. Yes, he called it Bony Brook, because too often he found remnants of bones along the banks, mainly just small fish bones, though occasionally some bird bones and rarely bones of an unknown nature.
Using the wet sand, he scrubbed hard enough at the rough edges until the overall sheen lightened up, and then he took his carving back to the brook to rinse and left it to dry on the large granite rock his mother had used earlier that day. Later that night, he would tie it to the top of a pinecone and present it to her to hang from the rafters near the lone window by the basin, which by all accounts acted as a sort of kitchen sink, though there was, of course, no real plumbing.
“You still working on that ugly bird, little brother?” Ann asked in her whining high-pitched voice he should have felt was annoying but instead found more adorable than the former.
With a false mocking look, he glared at her and responded, “Ugly bird? Why you little mouse, I will have my bird peck your eyes out this very moment!” And with a lunge, he ran after her, screeching bird noises as he went.
“Aye, Mommy!” she cried in mock terror. “Not the ugly bird!” And with a holler, she ran screaming into the family cabin to seek her loving mother’s attention.
All in good fun, thought Targon as he hooted and hollered around his sister with an occasional bird-sounding screech. He actually wasn’t quite sure if his screeches sounded like a bird or more like a cat dying a horrible death, but he was having quite a good time scaring his younger sister. Hey, what were older brothers for if not to scare younger sisters?
“Now, now, the two of you, take your bird calls and horseplay outside before you break something we can’t afford to replace.” As always, the soothing voice of their mother was a comfort to them, and they gleefully ran outside.
Eventually the sun started to set, and Targon put a few finishing touches on his carving so it would be ready for gifting. He brought in a few armloads of wood for the hearth, knowing full well that once the sun set, the temperature would plummet, and it would not do to have to return outside to retrieve firewood once Uncle Frost came to visit. He remembered his large wood axe and bow, both left unattended at the old oak tree. They would be all right, he decided, and quickly discarded the thought from his mind.
With that, the Terrel family had a festive dinner. Ann had made a crude but delicious salad of cabbage leaves, berries, and nuts, with a sweet onion vinegar dressing, and Mother had mashed and baked soft potatoes to go with the conies, of which there was no lack of meat that night. Blackthorn conies were not small in size to be sure.
After cleaning up the lone table and setting most of the wooden cutlery in the basin, Targon gave his mother the bird carving perched atop the wooden pinecone he had just recently finished. She beamed at him in delight and gave him a huge hug and, much to his chagrin, planted a large kiss on his right cheek that seemed to make Ann smile all the more. Ann, too, had spent some time picking a bouquet of wild flowers from nearby the cabin and had Targon obtain a few wilder ones from farther afield since she was not allowed to stray far from the homestead.
As was tradition in Agon, Dareen gave each of her children a small lock of her hair tied to a little stringy bow. “Just something to remember me when you’re playing,” she said.
Targon looked at the few blonde strands of silken hair tied in his
hand and then looked at Ann with her lightly golden locks of hair. Then, almost without thinking, he touched his own head and thought of the deep brown strands of hair that ran through his fingers.
“Was Father light-haired as you, Mother?” Targon asked gently, still stroking the hair on his head.
“No,” she replied. “He had a deep brown color to his hair, the same as yours. Brown and dark and smooth as a strand of earth-colored silk. Don’t you remember?”
“No, I can’t remember Father’s hair color. Silk,” he asked, “what is that?”
“Well, something you haven’t really seen yet,” she said. “It’s a form of fabric much like your tunic but very soft to the touch.”
“How soft?” he asked.
With a gentle laugh, she pulled Ann to her bosom. “As soft as Ann’s skin when she was just a baby.” Targon remembered touching his sister’s soft skin when she was just born and before her skin was weathered by living along the wild frontier.
“Did Tar have soft skin, too, when he was a baby, Mommy?” Ann asked with a mischievous grin. She knew he didn’t like being called Tar anymore than he liked being called little.
“Of course he did,” his mother replied. “Our little Tar had the softest skin of all.” She gave a wink and a nod. Targon could only smile and let loose a little chuckle, and he was a tad amazed at how perceptive his mother was to her children’s every word. Targon couldn’t help but feel a closeness to his family.
“Mother, can you tell us the story of your birth?” asked Ann after picking up the last of the wooden dinner plates and settling into a soft blanket near the hearth.
Dareen looked softly at her daughter and laughed out loud. “The story of my birth? Well, honey, I was much too young to remember it, but Grandma Julia told me enough to know it was a special moment in time, just the same as your birth. But I can tell you the story of the birth of Agon instead,” she said.
“Yes, please do, Mommy,” Ann replied.
“Oh, not again, I’ve heard this one far too many times,” he complained, but only half-heartedly. If anyone could tell a good tale, it was his mother, and he really wasn’t that perturbed to listen to her soothing voice yet one more time.
“Very well,” his mother said. “But it is getting late, and after our story, we shall sleep the slumber of the spirits of the earth and prepare for the next morning. It was a wonderful day today, and I will always remember it.” She blew out the lone candle and pulled the blanket up closer to her and Ann. Targon also pulled his blanket tighter around himself where he now lay on a small wooden bench.
“Once upon a time, there lived a princess . . .” And with that, his mother went on to tell the tale of Princess Arkala and her capture by the evil wizard Dak Mul, who took the princess to a tower to be guarded by a rather large and wicked red dragon, a dragon so fierce that no sword or man could kill it. But the knight, Sir Baldwyn, came and did not slay the dragon, but instead flew a giant hawk into the wizard’s keep and stole the princess back from the evil wizard. The dragon chased the pair far into the night sky where it almost caught them, but the knight was smart and wise and threw a pouch of gems at the dragon that breathed fire but was blinded by greed and turned to chase the falling gems before they could land and be lost to the ground below. It was then that the good wizard Gren cast a spell of time stopping, and the soaring dragon was frozen with the gems for all time, while the princess and her knight escaped back to her father’s kingdom to live happily ever after. In the sea of gems, there was a large blue one, a sapphire called Agon, and thus their world was born. One could simply walk outside into the night and look up and see the dragon breathing his flame and see the many other gems frozen in the night sky and know of the birth of the world of Agon. And how could one find the dragon in the night sky? It was the constellation that always pointed toward the fire of the rising sun and could only be seen late at night just before dawn.
Ah yes, his mother could indeed weave a good tale. He was pleased to notice his gift set prominently on the mantle of the fireplace in a place of honor and remembrance. Targon closed his eyes and listened to his mother’s soft humming while he could hear Ann’s breathing slowing but getting slightly louder. He, too, started to sleep with the same soft hum in his ears, not realizing or appreciating that this would be the last night his family would fall asleep together, and with that, darkness took him.
The moon wheeled across the dark sky, and up came the Dragon Constellation from the east. Soon, the head of the dragon became visible, and for anyone in Ulatha watching, one would know that the dragon’s fire was soon to be seen. What Targon could not know, and did not know, was that while the gems overhead moved through the dark night sky, several dark figures lurked near the family cabin.
Many centuries ago, the old road near the Terrel homestead was a fairly actively used trade route, but that was before the dragons of the North came to Kesh and destroyed it. The road quickly came into disrepair. Rocks fell and water weathered the road where it crossed the Border Mountains just to the east of Blackthorn Forest. The rare but constant passing of Dor Akun added to its demise every two centuries. In time, almost all trade stopped and bandits and brigands emerged, roaming the lands, risking the wrath of the dragons if ever caught in the open, until finally, the last of the dragons died at the hands of Heroes from the South. It was during that time that the old keep was overrun, but the brigands from Kesh were turned back and the old destroyed keep was abandoned. In time, almost no traffic moved along the old road, no one ever saw a dragon anymore, and Kesh and the East were utterly forgotten.
Then, not so many years ago, a small incursion of brigands had once again crossed over the mountain pass and assaulted what was left of the surviving farms and homesteads along the river. That was seven years ago. Targon’s father, Baldric, had died to save his family during this incursion. Afterward, many soldiers were enlisted by Lord Korwell, along with over a thousand other farmers, ranchers, and peasants, and they moved east over the Border Mountains and engaged the Kesh bandits for nearly a year. The Terrels received word when the army returned, only half as strong, that the bandits were destroyed. At least they did not see another brigand again for over seven years, until this very night.
Despite the history of raids and counter-raids, there was more to this group of bandits than just pillaging and plundering. For the first time in decades, they moved with a purpose. They were the fingers of an armored fist, smashing with a controlled mind against the fair people of the realm of Ulatha.
With a large crash, the front door of the Terrel cabin was kicked open, and several brigands entered. A couple of brigands busted open the backdoor and entered at the same time. Targon was caught unaware, but his mother, Dareen, had already jumped to her feet and grabbed a rag and the pot of water hanging over the family hearth, and in one fluid movement, she hurled the hot water across the small room and onto the first two brigands that had entered. They yelled in pain, one kicking a chair at her, which missed easily.
“Run, Targon, run!” his mother yelled. “Take Ann with you!” She grabbed a kitchen knife, moving to place herself between the brigands and her children, but there was no other way out.
“Mother, no!” Targon yelled, jumping up and grabbing an old wooden stool, swinging it at the head of a third brigand near the doorway. The brigand smashed the stool with a large metal mace and kicked Targon hard in his chest. Targon stumbled, trying to regain his breath, but his large legs held him steady.
Unarmed, Targon closed the distance with the mace-wielding brigand and embraced the man so that the mace could not swing. Using his powerful hands, Targon gripped the brigand’s head and brought it forward to meet his own forehead as it flew forward in a bone-cracking head butt.
The brigand’s nose was instantly shattered, and his eyes glazed over as he lost consciousness and fell from Targon’s grasp to the floor, dropping the mace as he went.
Without warning, two small darts were sent flying into Targon’s neck from the brigands who had entered at the rear door. He instantly felt the powerful pharmaceuticals as they rushed into his body, and realized the brigands had just drugged him as he felt his limbs grow heavy and fall. His last memory was watching as his mother took a glancing blow to her temple by another mace-wielding brigand as she, too, was subdued.
In a matter of seconds, it was all over. Targon didn’t know for how long they had been knocked out, but soon, he was revived with a foul-smelling concoction that was placed under his nose. The revolting smell was enough to bring him to his senses, but he realized he was now thoroughly tied up, and quickly the brigands brought him to his knees.
His sister, Ann, was screaming, and what a sound it was. A high-pitched wailing as if an animal had just died and was being sent to hell, Targon thought. Targon noted, with some content, that at least one brigand was wounded with a slash across his arm, but he remembered the mace-wielding brigand and how he had caught his mother a glancing blow across her left temple. Had it hit full on, he was sure she would have died from the blow. He saw her being revived as well, and one brigand even mopped away a large amount of blood from the side of her face.
“No killing!” he heard someone yell through the doorway. “Get them out of that rat hole and out here in the open, and for the love of Agon, someone stuff something in that girl’s god-forsaken shriek hole and shut her up!”
A rather large, menacing-looking brigand dressed in black leathers with a wicked-looking curvish blade in his left hand grabbed Ann and covered her mouth with his right while holding her in a sort of headlock as he carried her through the front door. Two other brigands grabbed his mother and dragged her through the front door as well. It took four brigands to grab Targon off the floor where he was just catching his breath. He wondered if a rib was broken: the pain in his lower chest was excruciating as all five of them headed outside.
Ranger Rising: Claire-Agon Ranger Book 1 (Ranger Series) Page 4